Mauthausen Concentration Camp

A fairytale landscape.

A chorus of birds, sunlight sifting gently through the trees.

An earthly paradise, a lush utopia.

Absurd.

Ridiculous.

Impossible.

I walk along Erinnerungsstraße, the way of remembrance, and the soft spring breeze lifts my hair.

Fields of gold ripple in the sunlight, running down to the small, gleaming village, framed by vast snowy peaks.

Look right. Turn. Flanked by the same pale crop, it stands. Long, Squat. Dull like the grey of old bones. But strong. Solid. Present.

My map

My audio

My self

sit under the beating sun.

The gate stands, distant but dark. Take time to read, and understand.

Then

walking, one footstep among many, passing through. Stand alone on the hard stones, and feel the magnitude of not-so-distant history.

What do the visitors see?

 5 hours is a long time.

In the bright sun, it all seems surreal. Or real. Up is down and down is up. The passing of time ceases to register. All thoughts are directed inwards, to make sense of this empty, static mass that still stands under the blazing sun. No nightmare bells, sobering rain, cleansing, bitter wind to take the breath away.

It is there

                        (down

                                                down

                                                                        down)

that things begin to come clearer.

Or meet with expectations.

Or seem like what you’ve seen in pictures.

Or saw in the movies.

Or at least, dear God, inspire SOME reaction to show that you have a beating heart.

It’s just the laundry room

But the underground darkness forces your eyes to adjust to the coldness of the fluorescent bulb. The walls seem ancient, peeling and decaying. Then you get the first taste, a glimpse through the open doorway. Dim still, with tiled floor and hanging metal heads. The showers. (But the real showers. Not the other kind, the abhorrent kind.)

Walk back to the long square

The weight starts to feel heavier, but moving on. The barracks. (2 to a bed, but later, 1000 to a room.) The office. (Privileged prisoners worked here.) The brothel. (Women were given free abortions if they got pregnant. Whether they survived is another story.)

An exhibit with pictures. The SS are so young, so normal. Even smiling. All capable of coming home to their families at the end of the working day.

The place of execution

A wire.                                                Hangings.

An alcove.                                          Shootings.

You venture further.

Alone, you step into a square, white chamber. A few memorial plaques line the walls, but it’s very bare. White tile. Drains. Coiled, dark pipes. It dawns suddenly

Gaskammer

The silence is too much.

But then, walking further, you come to another chamber. Flowers deck the doorway. Bright light streams in. You enter, and are faced with the ovens. The crematorium. But they do not seem to be a threat. In fact, they’re rather the opposite. Small candles – bright prayers – light the inside, and wreaths and memorials adorn the base. Notes, prayer cards, and tokens have been left there, filling the room with quiet peace. A group of schoolchildren enters. Softly, they murmur to each other while reading the inscriptions, moving from photo to photo. The sun seems less stark – more warm.

On the walk up.

"Erinnerungsstrasse"

View of the camp from the road.

View of the town of Mauthausen from the road leading to the camp.

Camp gate.

"Appellplatz" - the main area for roll call.

 

The shower room.

The disinfectant chamber.

Main gates.

Concentration camps (and satellites) in Austria.

Letters home had to say that the writers
were healthy and doing well.

Antifascists.

The SS guards.

Mauthausen main square (the town 6km from the camp)

 

 

For a comparison of historical and modern images, see the site "Third Reich in Ruins": http://www.thirdreichruins.com/mauthausen.htm